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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394760">bracing for impact</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSacrificialPancake/pseuds/TheSacrificialPancake'>TheSacrificialPancake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Things, 5+1 Things, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Protectiveness, Set somewhere in season 5, Whump, don't worry they each get their turn to play both damsel in distress AND prince charming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:26:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSacrificialPancake/pseuds/TheSacrificialPancake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Castiel takes care of Dean, and one time Dean returns the favor.</p><p>or</p><p>An angel's fall from grace, measured in blood loss.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>494</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the very touch of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Why do we enjoy torturing our favorite characters so much?"</p><p>"Because they make it look so pretty."</p><p>This is the age of self-indulgent fics, so I have created that which was denied me. I present to you: a Destiel hurt/comfort explosion in six parts.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>1. </b>
</p>
<p>Every inch of Dean’s body is caked in blood.</p>
<p>He watches bits of it flake away from the creases in his knuckles on the steering wheel. Their attempt to return to normal hunting feels a little pointless now that the Apocalypse has been kickstarted, but they both need the distraction. He and Sam are silent on the drive back to the motel. It’s been a long time since they fought a whole nest of vamps, and bad intel had left them significantly outnumbered. They eventually managed to snag the upper hand, with minimal bruising underneath their layers of grime and flannel. A glance at his little brother dozing in the passenger seat confirms Dean’s theory: they’re both okay, or some approximation of it. Just too tired to talk.</p>
<p>Dean scans the parking lot before moving inside, since they both look like extras in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and he'd prefer not to draw attention to it. Their motel room is painted an ugly lime green that had nearly triggered Dean’s gag reflex upon first glance, but it has decent enough water pressure and is relatively clean. Or it will be until he and Sam inevitably stain it with the gruesome vampire blood dripping from their bodies.</p>
<p>“I get the first shower.” Sam announces forcefully, and Dean raises his hands in surrender. Sam had been the one to take down the head honcho and had been closer to the bloody explosion, so he’d earned it. Dean watches him grab clean clothes from his duffel and stride into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.</p>
<p>Dean waits. He stands in the middle of the room for a long time, listening to the hiss of water. He can’t exactly sit down, unless he wants to leave a crisp twenty tomorrow morning to apologize for the suspicious bloodstain in the shape of his ass. </p>
<p>He pulls out his phone on instinct and scrolls through the contacts, then stops himself.</p>
<p>
  <i>He’s busy, leave him alone.</i>
</p>
<p>Dean hasn’t heard from Cas in a few weeks. It’s understandable, given the fact that he’s been running from his douchey angel brethren since he rebelled and Lucifer walked free. He’s also new to the whole “cell phone” thing. When Dean had gifted it to him and programmed in his number, Cas had done that birdlike head tilt as if he didn’t understand its purpose, so it is possible he just doesn’t know how to send a text message.</p>
<p>“Just...call me if you get into trouble on this God hunt, okay?” Dean had said that day.</p>
<p>Castiel had disappeared without an answer.</p>
<p>Dean can’t shake the churning anxiety in his gut that maybe he hasn’t heard from him because something happened. A hint of shame rises at the thought, like he shouldn't be worried about an angel when they're the ones who orchestrated this whole fiasco.</p>
<p>But Cas is different. He rebelled, and faced down an archangel for them. Dean still isn't sure exactly what kind of torture Cas went through to make it back from that one. Besides, there is a literal apocalypse going on. It’s normal to be concerned for your allies.</p>
<p>Or, y'know. Your weird maybe-friends.</p>
<p>
  <i>Fuck it.</i>
</p>
<p>Dean types and retypes his message three times, and pretends his thumbs aren't shaking. He settles on keeping it simple.</p>
<p>
  <i>Motel 6, Indianapolis, Room 309. Come check in if you can.</i>
</p>
<p>He pockets the phone and picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Minutes later, a flutter of wings sounds behind him.</p>
<p>“Hey, man.” Dean says, turning to face the angel.</p>
<p>Cas looks much the same as the last time they saw each other. Dark hair sticking up in all directions, trench coat wrinkled, blue tie facing the wrong direction. The purple circles under his eyes are a little more pronounced, but otherwise, he looks comfortingly familiar.</p>
<p>Except for the fact that he’s staring at Dean with an expression of mild distress, which on his typically blank face, probably equates abject horror.</p>
<p>Dean glances down at himself, having forgotten about his post explosion appearance. “Oh, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Dean,” Castiel breathes, moving into his space. Hands skate over Dean’s biceps, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.</p>
<p>“Cas, hey, <i>hey,</i> buddy, it’s not mine.” Dean reassures him, pressing a palm against his chest to try and stop the advance. A terrier holding back a mastiff. Castiel looks at him, disbelieving, and does not drop his hands. “Sam and I fought some vamps tonight, I just haven’t washed up yet.” He can feel how close the angel’s thumb is to touching that handprint on his shoulder, and he gulps. “I’m not hurt, I promise.”</p>
<p>“That’s not true,” Cas rumbles, irritation in his voice, and presses long fingers to a spot on Dean’s torso.</p>
<p>“Ow!” Dean glances down, and realizes for the first time that he does have a shallow slice between his ribs, about four inches long. It’s still spilling tacky blood down his shirt, but has blended into the mess of his clothes so that he didn’t see. Cas must have been able to sense the rend in his skin with his grace. “Fuck. I hadn’t noticed.” He peaks under Cas’s fingers. “Aw, man, that’ll need stitches.” </p>
<p>Cas looks conflicted for a moment, but before Dean can ask him what’s wrong, he moves.</p>
<p>“Just, let me.” Cas presses his palm against the cut. Dean sucks air in through his teeth, fisting the lapel of Cas’s coat to steady himself.</p>
<p>Cas closes his eyes, and light passes from his hand into the injury. Dean winces at the heat of it. Sometimes angel healing mojo wraps around him like a blanket, warm and comforting. Right now, it feels more like a static shock.</p>
<p>When Cas tentatively lifts his hand, Dean can see the wound is gone.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” he mumbles softly, not meeting the eyes he can feel boring into his own. He chuckles lightly to relieve some of the tension building between them, and gestures to his red clothing. “You couldn’t have wiped away the blood too?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t expect Cas to move even closer, and he definitely doesn’t expect him to bring one of his large hands to Dean’s jaw, sliding back to cradle the nape of his neck. Dean inhales in surprise, and gets a whiff of Cas’s scent. He smells the way his voice sounds - dark, earthy, and ancient. A little bit electric.</p>
<p>Cas keeps his eyes open this time, and the grace shines out of them like sunlight on Dean’s face. The blood vanishes in an instant, leaving behind the sensation of his skin scrubbed clean. His nerves tingle, raw.</p>
<p>He goes to thank Cas again, and notices how close their faces are. Cas’s expression is carefully flat. Dean opens his mouth-</p>
<p>A cough comes from across the room. “Am I interrupting something?”</p>
<p>Dean jumps backward, and he turns to see Sam leaning against the bathroom door jamb with wet hair dripping on his forehead. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s smirking at the intimate scene before him.</p>
<p>Dean looks back at Cas, expecting to see the same embarrassment he’s feeling reflected on that stubbled face, but he seems to have barely noticed Sam’s presence. Blue eyes remain trained on Dean. His palms are still extended too, both now coated in blood.</p>
<p>Something dark flutters in Dean’s chest at the sight. In offering to clean his ass up, the angel literally got his hands dirty. That feels damningly poetic, and deeply sad.</p>
<p>“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mutters before meeting Cas’s eyes one final time and turning away. He shoves past his brother into the bathroom, barely stopping himself from slamming the door behind him. In the dusty mirror, he can see how brightly his cheeks are burning, and turns towards the shower to escape the sight. It feels a little unnecessary now that he’s been mojo’d clean, but he could use the warmth anyway. </p>
<p>That, and he doesn’t want to talk about whatever just happened.</p>
<p>By the time Dean comes out, Sam is snoring and Cas is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. laid a hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I can hear you puking from here. Do you want me to make a pharmacy run for some Pepto Bismol?</i>
</p>
<p>Dean glares at the phone screen and drops his forehead to the coolness of the plastic toilet seat. Sam sympathy-texting him from the adjacent motel room is not nearly as comforting as either would like it to be. Dean has been knocked out of commission by a nasty stomach bug, and his brother sheepishly insisted on getting his own room to avoid contagion. He musters up the energy in his shaking fingers to type out a snarky reply.</p>
<p>
  <i>If you’re gonna abandon me in my time of need, at least have the balls to maintain the image of not giving a shit.</i>
</p>
<p>Sam responds instantly.</p>
<p>
  <i>:(</i>
</p>
<p>Dean would say more, but instead he pukes for the fourth time that night.</p>
<p>A few minutes later he hears footsteps, and groans.</p>
<p>“You don’t wanna come in here, Sammy, I’m leakin’ from both ends.”</p>
<p>“That sounds extremely unpleasant.”</p>
<p>Dean scrambles to his knees and swivels to look up at the angel in the bathroom doorway. Cas does not inhabit the body of a particularly large man, but from this angle, Dean feels like an ant beneath a giant’s feet. Tilting his head up that far leaves him dizzy, and he topples backwards on his ass.</p>
<p>“Shit, Cas,” he mutters, ducking his chin to hide the embarrassed flush of his face. “Warn a guy before he starts talkin’ bout his bodily functions.”</p>
<p>Cas doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sam called for me. He said you needed assistance that he could not safely provide.”</p>
<p>Dean rolls his eyes, then curses when it causes the throbbing in his temple to spike. “He’s just a wimp who doesn’t wanna catch whatever I’ve got. That doesn’t mean I need an angelic babysitter.”</p>
<p>Cas is shifting to say something else when Dean’s stomach rebels again. He scrambles for the toilet, but very little comes out. After a prolonged spell of dry heaving, he’s left whimpering into the bowl, which is when he remembers that he collapsed here two hours ago in nothing more than a T-shirt and boxer briefs. And now a literal angel is standing here watching him upchuck in his underwear, as if the universe couldn’t pack enough humiliation into one evening. Can't a man have a complete physical breakdown in peace?</p>
<p>Dean is about to turn and tell Cas to leave him alone in his misery when something blessedly cold touches the back of his neck. His breath catches, and without lifting his forehead from the seat, he peeks sideways. Cas has collected a washcloth from the cupboard above the sink and is now gently wiping cool water over Dean’s clammy skin. He’s kneeling on the floor of a motel bathroom like it’s an altar, lowering himself to Dean’s curtailed height so he can feel his forehead with the other palm. The tenderness in his hands leaves Dean's brain short circuiting; these are hands he has seen stab and smite.</p>
<p>“Your temperature is elevated, but not so much so that I would recommend hospitalization.” Dean feels Cas press a strong thumb into the tense muscles at the top of his spine before draping the washcloth around his nape. Dean bites his lip to keep a relieved sound from escaping his throat. “I would suggest rest, increased fluid intake, and whatever simple carbohydrates you can manage to keep down.”</p>
<p>Dean hums his assent. “That’s the plan.” Another thought strikes him. “Can’t you just mojo me?”</p>
<p>He's distracted by another rush of nausea, so he doesn’t notice Cas shifting nervously and refusing to meet his eye. “It’s...possible I could ease the symptoms.” </p>
<p>When he doesn’t continue, Dean squints at him. “But?”</p>
<p>There's something like discomfort pulling Cas’s eyes to the floor, but he quickly shakes out of it, instead carefully constructing an expression of teasing. He could <i>maybe</i> pass a written test on the Winchester book of sarcasm by this point, but he hasn’t quite prepared for the practical. The bitchy face ends up looking more like he’s eaten a lemon. “Is fixing a stomachache truly the greatest use of Heaven’s grace?” Cas manages to deliver with sass. “I imagine you’ll survive until morning without my assistance.”</p>
<p>Dean gets the sense that he's dissembling, but he lets it go with a half-hearted swipe at Cas’s torso. Then he drops a hand to the polyester-clad knee beside his own and gives it a squeeze, careful not to disturb the fingers on his neck. “Whatever, man. Keep your secrets.”</p>
<p>Cas shifts a hand so it’s brushing through Dean’s sweaty hair, and he really cannot help but sigh into it. He is, after all, only human. “Fuck, Cas,” he murmurs. </p>
<p>The hand stops moving. “Am I hurting you?”</p>
<p>“No!” Dean huffs a laugh. “No, it...that feels nice.”</p>
<p>Cas resumes moving his fingers across Dean’s scalp. As time passes, the pressure in his stomach eases and his eyelids droop. Despite the chill of the bathroom floor and the smell of his own stomach acid lingering, he could probably rest here for hours as long as Cas kept playing with his hair like that.</p>
<p>All too soon, Cas pats his shoulder. “You should sleep now.”</p>
<p>Dean moans. “C’mon, Mom, I don't wanna go to school. Five more minutes.”</p>
<p>“You are an adult, Dean, you no longer participate in organized education.”</p>
<p>Dean rolls his head sideways so he can give him a look. Definitely didn't study for the practical. “Joke, Cas. That was a joke.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” It might be his fever-addled brain, but Dean swears he can see a faint blush across Cas’s cheekbones. </p>
<p>Cas stands, and Dean wordlessly extends his hand upward for him to take. Sam isn’t here to tease him, so he might as well accept the help. </p>
<p>Cas pulls him to his feet. Dean wobbles a bit with vertigo, but is able to brace himself with one hand on the wall and one on Cas’s shoulder. The guy feels surprisingly solid under the baggy trench coat, so Dean dares to drop more of his weight there. Cas compensates easily, positioning an arm around Dean’s waist. The steady pressure of his hand warms the skin of Dean’s hip, currently clad in nothing but thin shorts. Cas supports him into the bedroom, having to turn nearly sideways to drag them through the narrow door frame. Then he flips back the covers and deposits Dean into bed.</p>
<p>“I could at least put you to sleep.” He's taken an awkward step back now, appearing almost self conscious. “It takes very little energy, and the grace-induced rest should ease your discomfort.”</p>
<p>Dean fights a smile. “So Heaven <i>can</i> spare the juice, huh? Hey, as long as you don’t accidentally smite me, that’d be great.” Cas steps forward once more and presses two fingers to his burning forehead. </p>
<p>“My very own guardian angel.” Dean’s mouth says without his brain’s permission.</p>
<p>His eyes snap to Cas's face, which bears an unreadable expression. Dean is about to backtrack, or apologize, or say <i>something</i> to make that sound manlier, but the darkness takes him before he can find the breath.</p>
<p>The next morning, Dean wakes to discover he is significantly less nauseous. He shifts into a sitting position, bare feet sliding against the carpeted floor, and stretches out his stiff muscles.</p>
<p>On the nightstand sits a full glass of water, a box of saltines, and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Behind that lies a small glint of silver. Curious, Dean holds it up to the light streaming through the window.</p>
<p>It’s a small angel charm hanging on a thin chain, the kind you’d find on a rack in a gas station. A royal blue gem sits in the center of the angel’s chest, heart shaped. It glitters in the morning sun, throwing tiny rainbows across his hand.</p>
<p>Dean snorts in laughter. He wonders absently if Cas paid for this stuff or just robbed a convenience store. Either way, he sends up a prayer.</p>
<p>"Thanks, man. Hey, will you watch over my car too if I hang it from the rearview mirror?"
</p>
<p>The resounding silence feels like answer enough.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. on a bender</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>3.</b>
</p><p>“I’m heading to that bar we passed in town.” Dean’s voice is low and dangerous, as if he’s daring his brother to protest.</p><p>Sam sighs. It’s been a long week for them. The demon they were after managed to capture a 9-year-old boy, and even though they were able to exorcise the thing and save the host, it had been too late for the child. Dean had stood tall as the mother cried into his arms earlier that evening, but Sam knew it had seriously rattled them both. No one likes losing a kid. </p><p>But that doesn’t mean he has to indulge his brother’s self destructive behavior. Especially since the angels threatened them with life as prophesied vessels, Sam feels loath to let Dean out of his sight.</p><p>He keeps his voice carefully neutral. “Do you think that’s a great idea right now?” </p><p><i>“Yes,</i> Sam, alcohol is a great idea right now.” Dean snaps. Then, a little softer. “And so is hustling some pool, cause we’re running low on cash.”</p><p>Sam pulls on his boots. “Okay, but you’re not going alone.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes so hard Sam thinks he might pass out, but he doesn’t object. They trudge to the Impala in silence.</p><p>The bar is dim and hazy, floorboards creaking under their feet as they enter. Dean pops his collar and marches straight up to the bartender. Specks of dust swim around him, dancing in the warm overhead lights. “Two shots of whiskey,” Dean mutters to the man. Sam steps up beside him. “Oh, right, you’re here too. Make that three.” </p><p>“Uh, no, just a beer for me, thanks.” Sam gives Dean a look. He doesn’t budge. </p><p>“Whatever it takes to get through the day, Sammy.” He slaps his brother on the back a little too hard, downs his shots one after the other with a grimace, and wanders over to the pool table. Sam nurses his beer from a bar stool, noting how expertly Dean begins to sway. It could be the liquor to the untrained eye, but Sam knows better. He’s seen Dean play this role many times; the drunker he appears, the more likely someone is to bet against him.</p><p>“Who wants to play some pool?” Dean slurs to the room of locals, lounging in darkened corners and puffing on cigarettes. </p><p>Sam sits back and watches his brother work.</p><p>Three beers later, he’s tipsy and paying less attention. Dean seems to be holding his own anyway, letting a burly guy with tattoo sleeves and a mean looking mug kick his ass. Soon he'll play the innocent sore loser and up the bid to $400, and then he’ll narrowly win and get the hell out of dodge. Which means hopefully, they’ll get to stay in a slightly cleaner motel tomorrow night. This hustler formula is a classic John Winchester maneuver, one which both Sam and Dean could execute flawlessly by the time they were seventeen.</p><p>So given their luck, it stands to reason that the moment Sam excuses himself to use the bathroom, all hell breaks loose.</p><p>Although, he notices distantly, maybe he should start using a different phrase.</p><p>He walks back into the bar to a cacophony of yelling. The tattooed man has a hand fisted in Dean’s henley while the other is smashing blows across his face. Behind them, four of his buddies are crowding the brawling pair, shouting insults. The entire bar roils with violent energy, and smaller fights begin to erupt.</p><p>“Ah, crap.”</p><p>Sam jumps into action, long strides carrying him across the room. He tackles the man on top of Dean, pulling at his waist until he can leverage his own weight against him, dragging him to the floor. This drops Dean against the pool table, blood streaming down his face and a glassy look in his eyes. “Yeah, take <i>that!”</i> He yells, slurring for real this time.</p><p>“Dude, not helping!” Sam hollers back.</p><p>He goes to grab his swaying brother and pull him from the fray, but immediately the tattooed man’s cronies are on them, pushing at Sam's shoulders til he drops to his knees. One of them resumes hitting Dean while Sam struggles against their hold. He hears the crunch of Dean’s nose breaking under a meaty fist, and feels the splatter of blood land across his own face.</p><p>He doesn’t know what else to do.</p><p><i>“Castiel!”</i> Sam yells at the ceiling of the bar, praying with all his might that they’re within angelic earshot. The guys on either side of him yell at him to shut up, dragging him further away from Dean and arguing over who gets to swing first. He whispers under his breath instead. “Cas, wherever you are, we need your help, right now. O’Flanagan’s Bar, outside Omaha.”</p><p>A vicious right hook splits his lip open. He gathers his wits enough to see that Dean’s strikes against his own attacker are getting weaker and the blood down his front is getting heavier. One final hit to Dean's temple and Sam watches his eyes rolls back. “Dean needs you, Cas, please!”</p><p>And with that, he gets a face full of dirty trench coat.</p><p>The angel appears directly in front of him and presses his fingers to the heads of the goons holding Sam down. They drop like sacks of potatoes, leaving Sam to catch himself against the sticky bar floor.</p><p>“Damn, am I glad you heard me,” he's saying, but Cas is already turning away. He’s got his hands on the man pummeling Dean, and for a second Sam thinks he’s about to burn his eyes out.</p><p>Instead, Cas simply twists at the hips and flips the man over his head, smashing him to the ground like it’s nothing. The crash echoes through the bar, and tussles and yelling die down. Everyone turns to stare at the slight man who’s just destroyed three much bigger guys, leaving a wake of carnage in the form of groaning goons and splintered floorboards.</p><p>Cas doesn’t notice at first. Sam stands quickly, bristling at the attention centered on his friend, but the man himself is too busy checking Dean’s pulse. He seems satisfied enough to grab him by the wrist and sling him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Only once he turns to reach for Sam does he notice the stares.</p><p>Cas pauses for a long moment, glances at Sam, and then calls out with a showboating bravado he definitely picked up from Dean, “...Put it on my tab.”</p><p>Then he grabs Sam’s arm and the world dissolves around them.</p><p>Their feet hit the pavement a few blocks away, where Dean had parked the Impala earlier. Once Sam finds his sea legs, he awkwardly digs through his brother’s jean pockets, currently pressed against Cas's chest, and pulls out the keys. He opens the door for them, and helps navigate Dean’s limp body to lie across the back seat.</p><p>“Sideways, Cas, sideways. His nose is broken, we don’t want him choking on his own blood.” Cas nods, and shifts Dean’s head. He is perched delicately on the edge of the seat, with his feet on the sidewalk and Dean’s temple braced against his hip.</p><p>“Can you heal him?” Sam asks nervously from outside the car. His brother’s breath rattles in his chest, his face is battered, and blood drips from his lips.</p><p>Cas inhales slowly and closes his eyes. “I...can.” He presses a palm to Dean’s chest. Light stutters from his hand, weaker than Sam can remember seeing it in the past. Cas’s face contorts, which startles them both. Especially given that wrestling victory a few minutes ago, Sam realizes he can hardly remember a time Cas visibly had to put in effort.</p><p>After a few false starts, like the Impala’s headlights when her battery is low, grace shines from Cas's hand. The bruises on Dean’s face fade, his nose straightens, and the cuts shrink away leaving freckled skin. Dean coughs, clearing the last of the blood from his airway, but otherwise doesn’t wake. He sighs easily, like he’s drifting off into a dream.</p><p>Cas releases a breath Sam hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. A moment later, he topples sideways out of the car.</p><p>“Whoa!” Sam snags him around the shoulders before he can hit the ground. “Shit, Cas, are you okay?”</p><p>Cas struggles to get his buckling legs under him, and Sam helps by propping his back against the solidity of the car. “I’m sorry,” Cas says, weirdly winded. “I didn’t think...oh, that weakened me far more than I expected.”</p><p>“Don’t be sorry, man.” Sam shakes his head. “You wiped yourself out to save our asses, we should be the ones apologizing to you.”</p><p>Cas rolls his head to the side and looks at Dean sprawled across the backseat. “This is one of the few ways I remain useful, so I’m happy to help.”</p><p>Sam pulls a face at him. “What does that m-”</p><p>“Do you need healing as well?” Cas interrupts him, gesturing to the split lip.</p><p>The cut does sting when Sam pokes at it with his tongue, but he can feel the way Cas’s weight is sagging under his hands. “No, don’t worry about me. I’ll heal on my own.” Cas braces himself to argue the point, but seems to lose an internal battle, and instead just tilts his head back against the car to breathe.</p><p>Once Cas's feet are steady enough beneath him, Sam slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. Cas leans his elbows on the window frame and peers in through the opening.</p><p>“I suggest you leave this town,” he says. “The participants of that pub brawl will be regaining consciousness soon, and they might be looking for you and your brother.”</p><p>“Good idea,” Sam nods. He tilts his head towards the passenger seat. “Aren’t you...joining us?”</p><p>A shadow crosses Cas's face. “I can’t.”</p><p>Sam sees deep fatigue in those alien blue eyes. “Cas, you’re as beat as we are. We’re all on the run. I get the feeling you could use the rest, and we could definitely use the company.”</p><p>Cas’s gaze flicks past his face for a moment. Sam follows his eyeline, and finds the little silver angel Dean had hung from the rearview a couple months back. His brother had refused to explain it at the time, but Sam had his suspicions about where it came from. Now he feels even more sure.</p><p>He flicks his eyes back to Cas and bites his tongue. The angel flushes anyway.</p><p>“Not tonight, Sam. But I’ll be back to see you two soon.” He nods curtly and vanishes.</p><p>Sam barely has time to think, <i>You'd better, for his sake,</i> before Dean lets out a muffled snore from the backseat.</p><p>He shifts the car into gear and heads for the highway.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. prayed every night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>4.</b>
</p><p>Dean tries not to think about Hell most days. He and Sam have plenty else to worry about. Vamps, werewolves, obscure mythological creatures. A recent salt and burn gone wrong had them running from the cops for a few days, and that kind of distraction doesn’t even scratch the surface of the angels and demons on their tail.</p><p>So in daylight, Dean is safe. Relatively.</p><p>It’s only at night when the slimy hands claw at him in his sleep.</p><p>He's a pro at manipulating his own dreams from the inside, especially once he knows that’s what they are. On any given Tuesday night when a Big Bad has him running through a dark forest, he can warp the fabric of his subconscious to more pleasant things. But the trouble with Hell dreams is that he can’t tell whether or not they’re real.</p><p>Tonight Dean wakes on a rusty rack, chains around his wrists and ankles, with more blood than a Red Cross donation center coating his chest. Alastair is in his face, all rank breath and greasy hair and sickening sing-song. </p><p>“Hiya, sweetheart.” The demon waves a blade like he’s saying hello, and then stabs it through Dean’s abdomen.</p><p>Dean cries out, jerking against the restraints. Alastair chuckles. “I’ve missed those pretty noises, gorgeous.” He twists the knife, drawing out a high pitched whine. “Thank god you’re all mine.”</p><p>“G-go to Hell,” Dean gasps. </p><p>“Aw, baby.” Alastair’s sweaty fingers pinch his chin, bringing them eye to eye. “We’re already here.”</p><p>“Wake me up, Sam, please, w-wake me up.” Dean mutters between clenched teeth. The knife severs an artery and blood rushes out in a flood. “Wake me up, wake me up, wake me up.”</p><p>The demon hisses in his ear. “There is no waking up from reality, boy. You’re mine, and no one is coming to save you.”</p><p>“No, this can’t be real, I remember…” Dean spits blood onto Alastair’s shoes. “We’re on a hunt, in...Ohio? I got out. I did, I got out, somehow. You're not real, you can't be real, you can't be-”</p><p>“Are you sure about that?” Alastair lands a kick to Dean’s shin, shattering the bone. He can barely gather enough breath to scream. “So what, you’re dreaming? I don’t think dreams are supposed to hurt this much.” One more well placed slice has Dean gargling his own blood. “You never got out, boy. You’ve been here with me all along.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flash around the grimy chamber. His head spins as most of his blood decorates the floor. If it weren’t for the rack propping him up, he’d have fallen to his knees by now. He knows this place, too well, he…</p><p>He has been here all along. </p><p>And he’s never getting out.</p><p>“Yes, baby, you’re getting it now,” Alastair snarls as he sees panic overtake Dean. “No one is coming to get you. It’s just you and me down here, forever. Doesn’t that sound fun?”</p><p>“Someone, please help me.” Dean gasps, eyes closed against the onslaught of pain and Alastair’s sharp laugh in his ear. “I’m beggin’ you, someone, please <i>get me out of here!”</i></p><p>He gasps upright in a motel bed, bile souring the back of his throat.</p><p>Cas is kneeling on the bed beside him, fingers pressed to Dean’s forehead.</p><p>They stare at each other for a few beats as Dean’s lungs try to catch up with his pounding heart. He huffs out a breath and flops backward into the sweaty, tangled sheets. “Fuck.”</p><p>“Are you alright?” Cas remains awkwardly balanced, the scratchy blanket Dean had kicked aside earlier that evening bunched beneath his knees.</p><p>Dean mumbles, “Peachy.” He squeezes his eyes shut and sees a flash of red, so he settles for tracing patterns in the water stains on the ceiling instead. “Thanks for the rescue.” It comes out softer than he intends.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Dean counts his breaths until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to die. He glances up at Cas’s face, and is unsurprised to find himself locked into eye contact. It amazes him sometimes how bright and blue the angel’s eyes can be. They weren’t quite that striking when they belonged to Jimmy.</p><p>The bed creaks under Cas’s knees. </p><p>“I should go-”</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>The vehemence of the word surprises Dean even as it flies from his mouth. He attempts to dull the desperation in his voice and manages to croak, “Just...sit with me. For a minute.”</p><p>Cas carefully shifts so he’s leaning against the headboard. He stretches his legs in front of him with a fatigued sigh that sounds very human. Dean stays on his back, looking up at the way the shadows carve into Cas's cheekbones.</p><p>Sam snores across the room. </p><p>The staring contest resumes. It bothers Dean's neck from this angle, but he doesn't want to look away. </p><p>Sensing that Dean won’t, Cas eventually breaks the silence. “Would you like to talk about it?”</p><p>Dean opens his mouth, a sharp deflection on his tongue. No, fuck no, he never wants to talk about Hell. But he finds the words stick in his esophagus like a choking hazard. </p><p>The pressure he’s been shoving down all this time feels like it’s about to crack his sternum in half. And Sam is asleep, and Cas is...whatever he is, so maybe here, in the dark, only if he closes his eyes, maybe he could just…</p><p>“Hell.” Dean only manages to squeeze out a whisper. He looks at Cas again, inexplicably nervous that the angel will flutter off and leave him in this vulnerable moment, broken open and all alone. But Cas looks on steadily, patiently. God, he’s always so patient with Dean. More so than Dean deserves, that’s for damn sure.</p><p>“Alastair had me on his rack.” Dean continues, wringing his hands over his stomach to hide their shaking. “He told me...he said I had never left. And that I never would.”</p><p>Distress flashes through Cas’s eyes, and he dips his chin in understanding.</p><p>“I remember screaming for help. For someone to get me out.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, Dean snaps and points finger guns at Cas like he’s giving him his cue. It doesn’t work. He concentrates instead on the warmth of Cas’s hip, inches from his own ear, and finds it grounding.</p><p>“Wait, how did you even know to come help me?” Dean notices with a start. “I couldn’t remember anything but Hell, there’s no way I dream-dialed you.”</p><p>That earns him the patented squint-and-tilt. “You prayed to me.”</p><p>Dean looks back at the nightmare as shallowly as he dares. “No, I don’t...I don’t think I did. I couldn’t remember shit. Alastair had me convinced I had never left to begin with, which means I didn’t even know you yet. I definitely wasn’t clear headed enough to have used your name.”</p><p>This time it's Cas who looks away, shifting in discomfort. </p><p>Dean sits up, sliding backwards til their shoulders bump and the headboard creaks against their combined weight. “What is it?” It hits him that the handprint scar is now nearly pressed up against its maker, separated only by a thin cotton shirt and the dense weave of a trench coat.</p><p>Cas looks anywhere but at Dean. His eyes skim from the busted mini fridge in the corner, to Sam’s duffel on the floor, to their muddy boots discarded in a pile. His own shoes are on the bed now, crossed at the ankle beside Dean’s bare toes. He flexes a heel absently into the blanket, and thinks that if it were Sam putting his shoe-clad feet on relatively clean linens, Dean would shove his brother onto the floor. In fact, he's seen such an encounter. ("I know you weren't raised in a barn, Sammy, so get those boots off my bed!" Followed by a thump of over six feet of Winchester hitting the ground.) It warms something deep in Castiel's chest that Dean doesn’t do the same to him.</p><p>“I don’t wish to embarrass you.” He finally says, eyes still jumping around the room. Cas is less still these days, Dean has noticed. Less marble statue than he was a year ago. He’s begun to pick up tics, like shifting his jaw side to side, or pinching his thumb and pointer fingers over the seam of his sleeve. “It relates to emotions, which I know you generally avoid.”</p><p><i>Ah, shit.</i> Dean feels shame blooming. Firstly at the truth of the statement, but then at the realization that he’s instilled his own messed up baggage into this divine being, now lying beside him in a by-the-hour motel. <i>Fuckin' great.</i></p><p>“Just tell me, man. I’m already in the <i>pit of despair,</i> or whatever.” Dean weakly imitates that croaky voice from The Princess Bride, and then remembers at Cas’s blank look that he never gets the pop culture stuff. Damn, he’s gotta put that one at the top of their list. Cas would like it.</p><p>“If you insist,” Cas gives in, eyes dropping to his own knees. “A prayer doesn't have to be in words. If the emotion is strong enough, we can pick up on it without them. A feeling, a hope, or a yearning can be enough when the need is dire.”</p><p>Dean suddenly can’t breathe. </p><p>Cas goes on anyway. “When you were in distress, I heard you calling for me. It doesn’t matter that you couldn’t invoke my name. Your subconscious likely associates me with your rescue from Hell. That part of you knew to...reach out to me to extricate you from the nightmare. So I heard you, and I came.”</p><p>Dean picks up on the pause, on whatever Cas is clearly trying not to say. “What exactly did you hear if I wasn’t prayin’ in words?”</p><p>Cas tilts his head, their noses almost brushing. “Longing. A desire to be saved.”</p><p>Dean can’t help but glance at Cas’s lips. Soft pink, perpetually chapped. He wonders...</p><p>Instead, Dean rotates and lets his tired head sink to Cas’s shoulder, who freezes in surprise. After a charged beat, he tugs the coat smooth under Dean’s cheek and tentatively pillows his own head on Dean’s crown.</p><p>They sit there propped together for a long time.</p><p>As sleep begins to pull at him like the tide, Dean jerks minutely, fearful of returning to the bloody chamber.</p><p>A hand smooths over his hair.</p><p>“You will not dream tonight, Dean. I’ll make sure of it.”</p><p>He tucks his head back into the crook of Cas’s neck, and sleeps soundly.</p><p>Which is why Dean can’t see the strain on Cas’s face as he reaches for the tiny spark of grace still rattling in his solar plexus, nor can he see how the glow of light shakes as Cas banishes the impinging nightmares. He doesn’t notice that the angel loses consciousness just as swiftly as his human charge.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. not who our fathers wanted us to be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>5. </b>
</p>
<p>“-ean. Dean! Listen to me, open your eyes.”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t remember why his eyes are closed to begin with. They do feel dry and grainy beneath his lids. He thinks about the time 6-year-old Sammy kicked sand in his face at that beach in Virginia. He'd made it up to his half-blinded brother by building him a lopsided sand castle. Dumb kid was so cute before he hit his growth spurt. Man, he’d kill for a beach vacation.</p>
<p>“Dean!” </p>
<p>Cas sounds upset. That octave of distress is new, Dean realizes, so he should probably go see what it’s about.</p>
<p>But a nap sounds so good right now.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Dean!”</i>
</p>
<p>He manages to grumble out an affirmative sound, something approximating “I heard you, shut up,” and tries to shift. That’s when the pain hits. His left arm bursts into flames, shooting deep into his rotator cuff. The noise in his throat becomes a shout, and his head instinctually shoots upward, eyes flying open to assess the scene.</p>
<p>His forehead hits a stubbled chin. </p>
<p>Dean drops his head back down and pants through the adrenaline rush. Cas is propped above him so they’re almost chest to chest, his hands bracketing either side of Dean’s head. Cold, rough stone bites into Dean’s spine, and bits of debris decorate Cas’s hair. When he looks beyond the broad shoulders framing his field of view, he notices that darkness envelops them both. There are tiny cracks in the veneer of black, letting in narrow streams of afternoon light. An unsettling number of dust motes dance in the air.</p>
<p>It all rushes back in one fell swoop. The abandoned warehouse. The coven of witches occupying it, trying to summon Lucifer and offer their services. Their massive altar under cracking cement ceilings and rusty I-beams. The defensive spell one had cast that succeeded only in crumbling the roof on top of them.</p>
<p>Dean supposes he’s lucky to have woken up at all. </p>
<p>But now, they’re buried.</p>
<p>
  <i>Fuck.</i>
</p>
<p>Cas heaves a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re awake.” He gives Dean an exasperated look, like he chose an inconvenient moment to be knocked out. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly ten minutes.”</p>
<p>Dean has to clear his throat half a dozen times before he can make real words come out. “Where’s Sam?”</p>
<p>“He was standing approximately thirty feet behind us at the moment of collapse. I cannot sense him nearby anymore, so I assume he escaped unscathed and went to seek help.”</p>
<p>Dean nods. “How did you land on top of me?”</p>
<p>Cas’s mouth twists. “I was beside you when that horrible witch blew the ceiling to pieces.” A grim satisfaction fills Dean’s stomach. Damn right, even the angel is gonna know how much witches suck. “Thankfully, I was able to block the worst of the falling stones. But then the floor collapsed beneath us as well.” He won't meet Dean’s eye, guilt swarming his features. “It was all I could do to shield your head and torso.”</p>
<p>Dean puffs out a breath of gratitude, feels his mouth quirk up in a smile without his permission. “Thanks. I guess this damsel in distress habit of mine is keeping you in business.”</p>
<p>Cas clenches his jaw. “Don’t thank me yet. I couldn’t cover all of you.”</p>
<p>Right. Dean braces himself and turns to look at the arm that had burned like lava moments ago, and has now dulled to a throbbing ache. It’s-</p>
<p>It’s not there. All he sees is rock.</p>
<p>He panics.</p>
<p>“Dean.” Cas’s voice sounds far away, echoing in a way that has nothing to do with the stone sounding board surrounding them. <i>“Dean.</i> Look at me." Cas tilts his head down, forcing eye contact. “Breathe. Your arm is still attached. It’s broken, and crushed beneath the stone. You’re likely losing blood, but I can sense that it’s still there and still connected to the rest of you. I promise.”</p>
<p>Dean blows out slowly, tries to soothe the rush of hysteria coursing through his veins. The clamminess of his skin is likely part shock and part blood loss. He focuses on Cas’s warmth where their legs lie tangled, his hot breath against Dean’s lips. He grounds himself in their closeness. It feels good to not be stuck down here alone. Comforting, even. Crush injuries notwithstanding, that is.</p>
<p>
  <i>God, what is our life?</i>
</p>
<p>Then Dean feels a drop of something land on his chest. He sees that it’s blood, and realizes he hasn’t ascertained certain crucial information. “Wait, are you hurt?” He runs his free hand up Cas’s side, squinting through the dark to where the twin pillars of his arms are braced astride Dean’s ears.</p>
<p>“I’m fine, don’t...” Cas trails off as Dean’s hand reaches his shoulder and slides past a hot rush of blood to hit concrete.</p>
<p>A flat slab of concrete, level with Cas’s shoulder blades.</p>
<p>Dean’s eyes widen and his hand shoots up beside Cas’s face, pressing flat and sweeping around his dust covered hair. Everywhere Dean touches, there is stone. This little alcove, large enough only to stop their bodies from being crushed, is being entirely held on Castiel’s back.</p>
<p>“What the <i>hell,</i> Cas!” Dean’s voice reverberates in the space.</p>
<p>“Excuse me for doing what I had to in order to save your life, Dean.” Cas snaps back at him.</p>
<p>Dean weakly presses up against the stone, unsurprised when it doesn’t budge an inch. “Fuck, man. How many pounds of rock are you holding up right now?”</p>
<p>Cas closes his eyes and flexes his shoulders slightly in appraisal. “Approximately four thousand.” </p>
<p>“Damn.” Dean whistles. “You’re a lot stronger than I gave you credit for.”</p>
<p>With a quirk of his eyebrows, Cas states proudly, “Yes, I am.”</p>
<p>Dean feels a hysterical bark of laughter burst from his chest when suddenly, a distant crack echoes through the space. He thinks it’s a shotgun from far above them, soundwaves carrying through the crevices that have let the light in. But then Cas lets out a startled yelp and slams his eyes shut.</p>
<p>“Whoa!” Dean calls out, unsure what’s happening. He instinctively reaches to help steady the concrete Cas is supporting (as if his single human hand could make a goddamn difference). Through that contact, he feels a tremor in the stone. Tiny bits of rubble plink down around their heads. Cas’s elbows quake and a quiet keen escapes his throat. “Hey, Cas, talk to me, what’s happening?”</p>
<p>As quickly as it began, Cas’s shaking stops and the rock above Dean’s hand stops vibrating. Cas rolls his shoulders back a few millimeters and steadies his arms. Dean sees for the first time, maybe ever, there is pain in the lines of the angel’s face.</p>
<p>“What was that?” Dean demands.</p>
<p>Cas blows out a careful breath. “The concrete is still settling. Somewhere above us, rocks just shifted. I felt it.”</p>
<p>Dean blanches. “Does it hurt?”</p>
<p>Cas glares.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, man!” Dean sputters. “Once upon a time I thought you were totally invincible, and now you’re bleeding on me. I can’t tell anymore what qualifies as a stupid question!”</p>
<p>As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dean wants to swallow them back down. A deep sadness rises in Cas’s face, along with a shade of embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Yes, Dean, it hurts.” Cas bites out. “Four thousand pounds of concrete collapsed on my spine. It feels like…” His eyes glaze over. “It feels.”</p>
<p>Dean isn’t quite following. He blames it on the crushed appendage and sub-clavicular bleeding. “Feels like what?”</p>
<p>Cas looks back at him, something like dread on his face. “I feel, Dean. I feel each and every pound of this weight, in my muscles and bones. And I feel...scared, I think.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, dude, anyone would.”</p>
<p>“No, any <i>human</i> would.” Cas clarifies vehemently. </p>
<p>Dean stares for another moment before the penny drops.</p>
<p>“Are you trying to tell me you’re not an angel anymore?”</p>
<p>Cas's deep timbre wavers. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>Dean curses their universally shitty timing. He looks around them once again, as if there might suddenly be a glowing exit sign beside their heads. Moving his neck brings on a rush of dizziness so intense, it could only be blood loss. The crushed arm must be practically hemorrhaging by now, especially if the rocks around them have shifted. “Okay, well, no way a human could do what you’re doing right now. They’d be squashed like a bug. Besides, you teleported to our motel, what, yesterday? You’re definitely still rocking the angel mojo. Now why don’t you prove it by stowing the existential crisis and zapping us out of here. Capiche?”</p>
<p>Cas rolls his eyes. “I was planning on it, but I needed you conscious. My hands are a bit preoccupied, in case you hadn’t noticed.” The biting sarcasm would make Dean proud in any other circumstance. “I can’t hold onto you like this. If I’m going to shift us both through space, you’ll have to hold onto me instead, or there’s a chance I’d accidentally leave you behind.”</p>
<p>“Okay, don’t want that.” Dean’s eyes skim over the body braced above his own, but he doesn’t know where to put his hand. He's ambushed by the memory of his awkward teenage self asking Sally Perkins to slow dance at the freshman formal. He settles for resting his palm loosely on Cas’s chest, the seams of his tie fraying under Dean’s fingers. “Is this good?”</p>
<p>Cas shakes his head. “No. Can you...here-”</p>
<p>He flexes his shoulder blades once more, rolling them backwards and dipping his forehead down towards Dean’s collarbone. When he moves, the rubble shifts and he grunts.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, stop!” Dean presses his hand more firmly against Cas’s sternum, ignoring the pain in his other arm as he budges. “Fuck, stop moving. Jesus.”</p>
<p>“Don’t blaspheme,” Cas bites out.</p>
<p>“If there were ever an appropriate time, buddy.”</p>
<p>Cas ignores the jab. “Here, just...hook your hand behind my neck.” Dean does, and feels the rough scrape of concrete against his knuckles. “Good. That’s...better, that’s a stronger connection.”</p>
<p>“How come?”</p>
<p>“The interstitial space between us is closer to my cerebral cortex.” Dean doesn’t think he’d be able to understand those words in that order even with all his blood still inside his body. “Now brace yourself. I’ll shift us above ground, laterally from the building.”</p>
<p>“Anywhere but here.” Dean grips tighter to the tendons beneath his palm, and waits for the accompanying nausea of angelic transport.</p>
<p>It doesn’t come.</p>
<p>After a few charged beats, they look at each other in horrified silence. </p>
<p>“Nothing happened,” Cas whispers.</p>
<p>“So I gathered,” Dean responds, eyes wide. </p>
<p>Cas swallows nervously. “I can’t move us, why can’t I move us?”</p>
<p>Dean rubs his thumb over Cas’s jaw. “Hey, just breathe, it’s okay.”</p>
<p>“No, it is <i>not</i> okay.” Cas declares fiercely, eyes flashing wild and panicked. “You are losing blood at a dangerous pace, and I’m clearly not enough of an angel anymore to withstand this weight for much longer.”</p>
<p>Dean can feel his consciousness slipping, but his first instinct is to soothe, to placate. “You’re still plenty angel, man, I know it. And you said yourself, Sam has probably gone for help. Chances are he’ll come back with a whole construction crew. Hey, I’ve always wanted to drive that wrecking ball thing.”</p>
<p>Cas shakes his head. “This can’t be happening. Let me try again.”</p>
<p>“Cas-”</p>
<p>“Just hold onto me, Dean. Now.” He demands.</p>
<p>Dean sighs, but does it. Cas looks a bit constipated as he tries to shift them again, but Dean has the good sense to know it’s not the time to joke about it. Especially when they don’t move.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Cas mutters, schooling his features into careful blankness. “If I can’t move us, I’m at least going to try and heal some of the broken blood vessels in your arm. You’re far too pale.”</p>
<p>Cas presses his neck back into Dean’s hand and squeezes his eyes shut. Dean focuses on his crushed arm, hoping this might work, but knowing in his gut that it won’t. A beat passes and the pain does not drain away. The blackness at the edge of his vision continues to swell.</p>
<p>Eventually he has to drop his hand to the ground, weakness seeping through the rest of his limbs. Cas bites back something suspiciously like a sob at the loss of contact.</p>
<p>“Cas, buddy. It’s gonna be alright.” Dean isn’t sure if that’s true or not, but it’s what his friend needs to hear.</p>
<p>When Cas opens his eyes, they’re flat and unseeing. “I can’t reach my grace. It’s like it’s locked away, or boarded up. Hidden from me.” He looks straight through Dean, as if he’s entirely alone in the world. Then, his eyes widen.

</p>
<p>“I can’t feel my <i>wings.”</i></p>
<p>Something cold flutters through Dean’s chest at that. There’s nothing in the world that he could say to make it better, so he doesn’t try. He lets it shroud them both like a blanket of snow.</p>
<p>Cas continues. “I’m becoming more human with every passing moment. It’s been happening for months, and this must be the culmination.” </p>
<p>Dean swims up from the depths a bit at that. “...What?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been losing my powers ever since I got cut off from Heaven.”</p>
<p>“Cas, you...you didn’t say anything.”</p>
<p>“Did I have to?” He snaps. </p>
<p>Dean gapes at him. "Abso-<i>fucking</i>-lutely, you had to tell me!"</p>
<p>But if he could kick himself for not noticing it sooner, he would. This explains a lot.</p>
<p>Dean has been thinking about that post-nightmare visit when Cas stayed all night long. How he woke up the next morning and their arms were tangled together, and Cas had still been fast asleep. He's been slowly and steadily losing power, and Dean has refused to notice. An angel doesn’t just crash beside you on a shitty motel mattress for sleepover funsies. He does it because he’s tired.</p>
<p>Because there's something wrong.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Cas. I should’ve known.” Dean gulps. “I should’ve...oh, fuck."</p>
<p>“No, you're right," Cas admits. "I should've told you. I just didn't know how, because I didn't want it to be true.”</p>
<p>A sad silence settles over them.</p>
<p>Once his head is really starting to spin, Dean manages to mumble. “Cas...I need you to keep talking.” </p>
<p>Dean can hear the hitch in Cas’s rough voice, and realizes with a start that he has let his eyes sink closed. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m gonna pass out from blood loss soon, and I’m trying to stay awake as long as I can.” Dean focuses again on the warmth of the body above him, how stark a difference it is to the leeching cold of the stone at his back.</p>
<p>“No, Dean. Please stay with me.” Cas bites out.</p>
<p>“I can’t,” Dean mutters. “You’re gonna keep talking because I told you to, and then when I pass out you’re gonna hang on exactly as you are right now, until Sam finds us.”</p>
<p>“I can’t-”</p>
<p><i>“Yes,</i> you can, because you have to. We’re both getting out of here alive. Got it?”</p>
<p>“Dean. That is a highly unlikely sequence of events. Either my strength will fail and we’ll both be crushed, or you’ll bleed out long before he reaches us.”</p>
<p>“I’ve always loved your optimistic attitude.”</p>
<p>“Dean!”</p>
<p>“Cas.”</p>
<p>“I…” He trails off.</p>
<p>Dean forces his eyes open. His vision is doing a damn good impression of those old school photographs, where the subject is ringed in fuzzy darkness. At the center of it are two blurry blue eyes, blinking back tears. He’s never seen Cas cry. But then again, Cas is going through a lot of firsts today. Dean wishes he had gotten him laid when he had the chance.</p>
<p>“Cas!” Dean manages to rustle up his most militant voice. “I told you to keep talking.”</p>
<p>Cas swallows roughly and forces the words through his teeth. “About what?” </p>
<p>“Literally anything, because I’m about fifteen seconds away from comatose.”</p>
<p>“Fine!" Cas shouts, voice cracking. "I don’t know how to be human! I am not equipped to handle the...the sensations, especially not here and now. I cannot take the physical pain, or the fear. This weight will literally and figuratively overwhelm me any minute. I am nearly powerless, you're in danger because of it, and I don’t know <i>what to do!”</i></p>
<p>Dean breathes out a weak chuckle and slurs. “That’s the secret. None of us do.”</p>
<p>He passes out.</p>
<p>Cas yells in frustration and worry. He has never felt so engulfed in feeling. Pain and fatigue sing in his muscles while he hangs onto desperate, dogged faith that Dean will not die here.</p>
<p>He senses the wetness on his face. Even though he understands how tears work, he’s never produced them himself. He wishes for a spare hand so he could wipe them away.</p>
<p>In all his centuries, he has never prayed to anyone but his Father. Today, he prays to Sam Winchester.</p>
<p>
  <i>Please, Sam, I beg you. Hurry up. Your brother cannot die on my watch. </i>
</p>
<p>Either someone hears his call, or the Winchester boys simply have impeccable dramatic timing. Given Castiel’s current feud with Heaven and the brothers’ history of near misses, he is inclined to believe the latter.</p>
<p>An enormous creak shakes the ground above them. Cas lets out a gasp as rocks shift and slide. The weight on his back suddenly lightens by half, but the abrupt change is enough to shock his muscles into failure. His elbows buckle and he dives to protect Dean’s head as the remaining concrete crushes them together. </p>
<p>A scream forces its way between his clenched teeth as his ribs and pelvis and skull bend under the weight of the collapsed building. Blood seeps from the gouges along his back, and the sheer pressure threatens to flatten him like an ant. He hangs onto whatever strength kept him alive this long to keep his body intact now, if only to protect Dean’s. Cas notices in a detached way that he is roaring directly into Dean’s ear, which would be unpleasant for the hunter were he awake. However, as he is currently unconscious and Castiel has never experienced such exquisite pain in his millenia of existence, he figures Dean would understand.</p>
<p>And then the pressure is gone. Light bursts into his field of view and he gasps loudly, ribs expanding once more.</p>
<p>“Cas! <i>Dean!”</i> Sam Winchester’s voice may be grating at times, but in this moment it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.</p>
<p>Sam’s hands are on him. Blessedly warm, roughly calloused. He turns Cas over gently, and gasps at the sight of his brother. The crushed arm, now exposed, is mangled beyond belief. Blood seeps out from a dozen places, and the bones bend where there are decidedly no joints.</p>
<p>Cas rasps, “He passed out just a few minutes ago.”</p>
<p>Sam scrambles for his pocket and shoves his cell phone in Cas’s direction. “Call 911.” As Cas fumbles with the buttons, his eyes catch on the yellow industrial excavator parked beside their divot in the ruins. Sam must’ve hijacked it from the local farm to dig them out.</p>
<p>The operator picks up, and Cas directs her to the abandoned warehouse outside of town. If she’s startled by the location, she doesn’t show it. She dispatches an ambulance and tells him she’ll wait on the phone, but he barely hears her.</p>
<p>Beside him, Sam is ripping off a piece of his jacket and tying it above Dean’s bicep. Castiel watches helplessly and curses his own forgetfulness of human first aid. A tourniquet, of course. Why hadn't he thought of such a simple treatment before?</p>
<p>Just another way he isn’t meant to function like humans do when in crisis.</p>
<p>Once Sam ties it off, he sets about checking his brother’s pulse, pupillary response, and breathing. He wraps the rest of his jacket around the arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It seems like a losing battle to Cas, so he keeps his eyes on the phone. He has thought before that humans show a bizarre deference to emergency vehicles; pausing their own journeys, breaking roadway rules in order to make way for them. It’s the kind of unconditional respect Castiel always believed humans should show his Father, rather than each other. But in this moment, he cannot have anything but gratitude for how quickly the ambulance must be on its way. </p>
<p>Once Sam is content his brother isn’t going to drop dead, he seems to remember Cas is there.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Sam asks him, absently. Cas can tell his mind isn’t really functioning beyond the <i>Save Dean!</i> alarm, so he shrugs off the concerned hand. </p>
<p>“I’m unharmed, Sam. Focus on your brother.” It’s a lie, and if Sam were clearheaded enough to think straight he’d know it too, but neither of them really care right now. </p>
<p>So they sit, and wait, until flashes of red and blue announce rapture like an angel never could.</p><p>Cas insists that he’s fine when the paramedics get too close. His back took most of the damage, so he is sure to keep it angled away from them to strengthen the ruse. But with Dean nearing critical condition, no one presses Cas about treatment protocols too hard. He just watches as they strap Dean to a stretcher, hook him up to wires, and hoist him into the rig. There’s a restless kind of rumbling in Cas's stomach at the sight, one that might be shame but he’ll call nausea.</p>
<p>He and Sam follow in the Impala. The ambulance clears the road for them, and Sam practically tailgates their bumper. They’ve been told the hospital is a mere sixteen minutes away. All the same, the silence in the space of the front seat feels heavy and oppressive, dragging on for miles. Neither dares reach for the radio.</p>
<p>Sam does glance over after a few minutes, and seems finally to drop into the world around him in real time. He does a double take between his passenger and the road.</p>
<p>“Shit, Cas, you’re bleeding.” Sam gingerly tucks a hand over Cas’s shoulder and presses so he leans forward on the bench, presenting his back. “You’re, like. Really bleeding. Fuck. Hang on.”</p>
<p>Cas steadies the steering wheel as Sam strips out of his remaining flannel, and folds it behind Cas’s shoulder blades.</p>
<p>“Lean back against that...yeah, lean back hard.” Taking the wheel back with one hand, Sam pokes at the wounds with the other and pulls a hiss from Cas. “Sorry. This is really deep, man. We gotta find an expert to stitch you up, or the muscles won’t heal right.” Cas wonders why Sam can voice his worries aloud, articulate them so clearly, while Dean prefers to bury emotions and obscure his true meaning with jokes. “Press straight back into that, it’ll help slow the bleeding.”</p>
<p>After a moment’s silence, Sam exhales loudly. “It must hurt. You were holding up a lot of weight there.”</p>
<p>Cas shuts his eyes and watches the red and blue lights flash behind his lids. His mind inexplicably wanders towards Heaven. “Yes. I suppose I was.”</p>
<p>When he looks up again, his eyes catch on the silver guardian angel dangling between them and Dean.</p>
<p>He rips it off the rearview, rolls down the window, and hurls it onto the asphalt.</p><p>They spend many grueling hours in the hospital; falsifying insurance forms, pacing in waiting rooms, agonizing over the worst possible outcome while Dean is in surgery. Cas has to sit through seventy four truly hellish stitches for the twin gouges down his back. Such a small but persistent pain, clearly designed to induce insanity in the patient, could only have been invented by a demon. Castiel is sure of it.</p>
<p>He has not looked at the wounds himself, nor does he particularly wish to. A nurse offers him a hand mirror but he declines. He is polite enough as the doctor stabs needles into him, but the pain is overwhelmingly repetitive, and he finds his knuckles turning white as he grips the sheets beneath him. Later on, he avoids the bathroom mirror too, as well as Sam’s miserable expression. Dean would call the look his “puppy dog eyes”, though a man of Sam’s stature being likened to a young canine has always confused him. It isn’t until he’s on the receiving end of said look that he understands. It’s a softness, a tenderness aimed his way, which in itself is a warming thing, as is the comfort of a small dog. But it is mixed with a healthy dose of pity, and for that Castiel will not stand. Not while Dean is in surgery because he failed to protect him.</p>
<p>So no, he doesn’t need to see his own back to understand Sam’s pitying look. He could feel the contour of the doctor's hands as he worked. He already knows that with the blood wiped away and the stitches knotted, he now has two massive rips arching from the skin of his shoulder blades down to the back of his waist.</p>
<p>This means he’ll have scars in the shape of wings. The irony does not escape him.</p>
<p>One hundred and thirty nine stitches, two titanium rods, four screws, and one cast stretching from palm to shoulder later, Dean is laid up in his own private hospital room. The medication he was given in surgery should keep him unconscious for the next six hours or so. Sam managed to get Cas discharged with some flirting and forged signatures, but he couldn’t convince him to return to their motel room to rest. Instead, Cas sits by Dean’s bedside and listens to his heart monitor.</p>
<p>
  <i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i>
</p>
<p>Castiel has always marveled at how powerful a beating heart can be. The gorgeous, vivid muscle has always been his favorite of his Father’s bodily inventions. There is a hypnotic draw to its constant motion, powered by a spark of divine electricity. It is a strong enough symbol that humans have replicated it in their clocks, their music, and their stories for generations, all with one unifying message: what miraculous tales a simple pulse can tell.</p>
<p>He presses a hand to his opposing wrist; pointer and middle fingers extended and aligned, all others held together by the thumb. It is so often a motion he has used to heal, a miracle that has now been taken from him. Instead, he uses it to monitor the metered drumbeat under his skin.</p>
<p>He realizes that for the first time since taking this vessel, the heart beating in his chest is truly his. This borrowed flesh no longer houses the trapped soul of Jimmy Novak, but is the new home for his own consciousness. <i>The new prison,</i> an ugly piece of him whispers. He shoves it away.</p>
<p>
  <i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i>
</p>
<p>As he watches Dean’s chest rise and fall, he ponders his gradual descent from Heaven. Lucifer’s plummet was violent, lightning fast, full of fire and brimstone. There was no doubt as to what was occurring. Any angel close enough to smell the sulfur knew to drop to their knees and mourn their lost brother.</p>
<p>His own fall from grace feels so much less dignified. Slower, lacking in clarity. Full of so much shame.</p>
<p>He will be truly useless here once his powers to protect, defend, and heal are gone for good. Sam is the greatest human lore researcher Castiel has ever met, so his own encyclopedic knowledge will prove unnecessary. Dean can hold his own in a fight against nearly any creature, provided his arm heals properly and they don’t battle any more falling concrete in the future. And they have each other. Neither of the boys have ever truly needed anything else as long as that part remained true.</p>
<p>
  <i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i>
</p>
<p>Perhaps the Winchesters will throw him out just like Heaven did. Discard him like something obsolete and defective. After all, he is. The only angels who ever fell were the ones who weren’t built right in the first place. Lucifer was prideful. Anna was full of wrath. And Castiel, with his doubts plaguing him since The Beginning, could never have fallen this far if he were created properly from the start. He recognizes this line of thought is very close to blasphemy, teetering on the edge of challenging his Father’s creation of his own nature. But questioning is a part of humanity, he notes bitterly. Besides, both the sting of thread pulling at his back and the swell of mortal anger in his chest tells him that he truly does not care anymore. Let him blaspheme, who is holding him to Heaven's standards now?</p>
<p>The thought feels like a final indication of how far he is past the point of no return.</p>
<p>An even worse notion intrudes. Maybe the Winchesters will both perish as a direct result of his failure. He’s a fugitive of Heaven now, with a cosmic target on his back. His weakness of mind and spirit is a vulnerability that any of their enemies could exploit. The brothers consider him an ally, but perhaps they shouldn’t. Perhaps his presence in this lessened state is nothing more than a liability that will get them killed.</p>
<p>Castiel notices his chest aching, and presses a hand to his ribs. They received “quite a beating”, in Sam’s words, but he has a feeling that is not the cause of this pain.</p>
<p>He listens to Dean’s heartbeat. Strong, steady, and singing, just like his soul. As an angel, Castiel used to be able to see a soul shining beyond the confines of one's body. Now, without his grace, the gentle glimmer that once surrounded Dean has vanished. A great pity, since Dean's soul is the most beautiful sight Castiel has ever beheld. He hopes that Dean won't tell him to go before he finds a way to glimpse it one final time.</p>
<p>
  <i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thoughts? predictions? favorite lines?</p>
<p>warning: I may make you wait a few more days for the final installment, mostly because I'm doing some rewrites and partially because I'm evil and want to let you stew.</p>
<p>thanks for sticking with me this far.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. what we deserve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for your patience, friends. Here goes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>+1</b>
</p><p>Months after the Great Collapsing Witch Warehouse, there is still no sign of Cas’s grace returning to him. It’s an adjustment.</p><p>Cas tags along from motel to motel. He dresses in the brother’s hand-me-downs, picks at diner sandwiches, and researches things that go bump in the night with the same unsettling focus that used to set a room alight with crackling energy. It takes a while to find the sea legs of their new trio, but with Dean’s arm out of commission, it’s nice to have an extra set of hands around. The first time Cas digs the remote control from under Sam’s sleeping form and changes the channel to <i>Dr. Sexy,</i> Dean spares a thought for his own bad influence. But then Cas laughs at some dumb line from the show, and he forgets what he was worrying about to begin with.</p><p>The guy isn’t <i>exactly</i> human. He doesn’t always need food, though Sam encourages him to eat at least one meal a day to be safe. They learn when he accidentally pulls a door off its hinges that he’s still stronger than an average man his size. He can also go a couple days without sleeping. More than once Dean has woken in the night to find the other side of the bed empty, with Cas sitting by the window of their motel room, watching the neon signs flicker outside. (He and Cas share most of the time, only because Sam sprawls like a felled Sasquatch. Even though they staunchly keep to their own sides, his not-so-little brother is uncharacteristically thrilled about Dean’s strange new bedfellow. He won’t stop teasing them about it.) But regardless of Cas’s nocturnal episodes and freaky metabolism, very few of his party tricks remain. No fluttering around, no healing, no telekinesis, and definitely no angel radio. Once, Sam asks if he can still hear the Host, and Cas responds that his head has never been so silent and yet so loud.</p><p>Over time, Dean watches Cas develop human-adjacent habits and opinions. He prefers being barefoot to wearing the thrift store boots they found him, though Dean will only allow it in motel rooms, because "Gross, man, there's bugs and shit out there." He devours the dime store novels Sam hands him, and gets so invested in the love lives of the characters that he recounts entire scenes to the boys from the back of the car. He smitingly glares at a waitress in Alabama when she accidentally brings him decaf, which leaves Dean choking on his eggs. Cas is funny, in that too earnest off-beat way of his, and Dean finds himself laughing a lot more often than he used to.</p><p>They don’t really talk about the grace problem, or Cas’s continued presence as a result of it. They just adapt, as Winchesters do. Besides, everyone is a bit distracted with Dean’s papier-mâché arm and the complex regimen of painkillers required to keep him off the bottle. ("It's called fiberglass, Dean, just take the damn vicodin.") Cas takes to caretaking with a lot more, well, <i>grace</i> than Sam does. They settle into a routine - Cas helps Dean shave, Sam picks up the takeout, Dean plays literal backseat driver while they teach Cas how to use the Impala's gearshift. But once the cast comes off two months later, leaving behind abstract swirling scars like a tattoo sleeve, Dean notices he’s surprisingly nervous. Now that he has two functioning hands and can’t reasonably ask the guy to stick around to button his shirt for him anymore, what if Cas decides to up and disappear? </p><p>He’s gotten so used to Cas. His grumbled morning protests when Dean shakes him awake at check out time, his rumpled form dressed down in Dean's old AC/DC T-shirt, his warm presence against Dean’s shoulder as they bring his movie knowledge up to speed. He wouldn’t wish the horrors of humanity on him to begin with, but he’s glad Cas can’t go flitting off without warning anymore. Dean wants to keep that scruffy head in his rearview mirror, no matter what comes around the next bend.</p><p>They’re hitting the road in Bumfuck, Nowhere, heading west towards Bobby’s. Dean is about to slide into the driver’s seat for the first time in months, both hands aching for the smooth leather of Baby’s steering wheel. But the air has shifted since the doctor sawed off his cast, and he has to make sure one particular passenger still wants to be on board. </p><p>He’s got a little speech prepared, but when the time comes all he can muster the chutzpah to say to Cas is, “You’re still, um...are you...coming?”</p><p>
  <i>Smooth, Winchester.</i>
</p><p>He struggles to keep his face neutral, and prays to someone who can no longer hear him, <i>Please, say yes.</i></p><p>Cas nods wordlessly. The relief that crashes through Dean is nearly strong enough to buckle his knees.</p><p>Later that day, he feels embarrassed when he realizes Cas is likely only sticking around because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, but like hell is he gonna say that out loud. If he acknowledges that they’re the guy’s only option, it’ll feel less like he’s <i>choosing</i> to be here. It will mean accepting that Cas is only a temporary addition to the team, and will eventually realize there are better options out there. Dean can’t handle that thought right now, so he doesn’t try.</p><p>Cas refuses to hunt with them. Once they ease back into it, he makes it clear that he’s only interested in the research side of things. He dances around the subject for a while before admitting that being out in the field in his "current state" (yes, air quotes included) won’t end well. They don’t push him. Sam is ecstatic to have another nerd on the team, a partner with whom to pore over dusty tomes and obscure lore. Dean mocks them, but feels grateful to be off book duty while his brother and their not-quite-angel dig up all the info they need. <i>Please,</i> give him the answers in advance and set him loose to get his hands dirty any day.</p><p>Besides, Cas is scary good at research. Something about a celestial brain is well suited to this work. He picks up on microscopic details and draws obscure connections lightning fast. His people skills are rusty, to say the least, so he’s no longer welcome on witness interviews until he can make it through one of Dean’s practice interrogations without saying something seriously off-color. But with his extensive knowledge on their side, the boys end up sweeping through cases in nearly half the time it would’ve taken them before. On multiple occasions, Sam and Dean walk into their motel room smelling like sulfur and covered in blood, longing for hot showers and cold beers to celebrate a job well done, only to find Cas buried in Sam’s laptop planning their next three hunts. Dean’s bad arm aches with the increased workload, but frankly he’s grateful to be busy. He digs out the crumpled packet detailing his physical therapy exercises. Seems like he’s gonna need it.</p><p>Things are honestly going...okay. Dean wonders if he’s jinxed them for even considering it, but they’ve settled into a pattern that works. The Devil is strangely quiet for now, Sam is back to being his regular bitchy self, they’re working normal cases like the old days. And having Cas around is, if he’s being honest, actually really awesome.</p><p>So of course shit hits the fan as soon as Dean dares to <i>think</i> the word “happy.”</p><p>This blip of a town in Indiana has seen an increase in disappearances over the last four months. Hikers and wilderness officials began to go missing from a largely uncharted section of the local forest, and no one could pin down why. It takes them less than a day to figure out who the vengeful spirit is. Then, a week of researching town records at the municipal library, scouting the land, and talking to a local cartography nut for them to figure out that the haunted ranger station must be marked wrong on the map.</p><p>Well, by <i>them</i> figuring it out, Dean means Cas.</p><p>With Sam away tracking down an ancient book that might help them get a leg up on Lucifer, Dean finally convinces Cas to join him on this hunt. It’s been six months since their stint in the hospital, and it's clear he's getting antsy. It’s a straightforward ghost situation, practically a milk run, and it should be simple enough to ease him into fighting without his powers.</p><p>After all, Cas is the one who discovered the missing piece of the puzzle earlier that afternoon - that the cabin they need to burn must actually be two some odd miles east of where it’s marked. This means he should get a piece of the action, and remind himself why they do what they do.</p><p>It also means they wind up fighting the vengeful spirit in a section of forest with which they’re deeply unfamiliar.</p><p>So in Dean’s defense, he never would have sent Cas to cover the ghost’s flank if he’d <i>known</i> the ravine was right there. If he’d known the ghost would shove Cas like a rag doll, tumbling into the dark of a thirty foot drop to a stone outcropping.</p><p>Frankly, it’s not his fault. That’s the lie he’ll tell himself later, anyway.</p>
<p>“Cas, dammit, stay awake!”</p><p>Dean steps over another root and jostles the body in his arms as hard as he dares. He’s rewarded with a low moan.</p><p>“I know, man, I know, but stay awake anyway. We’re not far now.”</p><p>Cas had remained unconscious for most of the treacherous climb out of the ravine, draped over Dean’s shoulder. They should both be grateful for that, since his multiple bruised ribs had violently opposed the position as soon as he awoke. Once Dean had reached level ground, he’d shifted him into a bridal carry, but that’s not much better. It only means the wide gash on Cas’s hairline is gushing blood onto Dean’s shoulder, and his dislocated ankle is dangling tremulously with every step. The head injury has left him wobbly and confused in a way he’s never been before, which ratchets Dean’s worry up a few thousand notches.</p><p>Dean strides through the wooded path as quickly as he dares, trying to triage Cas’s comfort level against how fast he needs to get him patched up. The Impala is parked on the edge of the local trail, and their motel is a fifteen minute drive past that. He hates to make the pain any worse by rushing, but he is really not handling injured Cas very well. Something about that face gasping in agony and drenched in blood shocks Dean to his core, and he just needs to fix it, like, yesterday.</p><p>He feels Cas’s labored breathing against his collarbone and wonders if this accident could be the thing that breaks him. If this is the last straw that sends him fleeing from their batshit crazy life. If he’ll run screaming without saying goodbye, or if he'll bother to shake Dean's hand with a <i>Sayonara, I won’t miss you! Good luck with the Apocalypse!</i></p><p>Dean wouldn’t even blame him. Sometimes he doesn’t want to stick around in his own life either.</p><p>Another careless step has Cas gripping Dean’s jacket with a gasp. “I told you...th-this wouldn’t go well.” His words slur together.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Tell me again. Keep talking.”</p><p>Cas squeezes his eyes shut and mumbles, “I don’t like decaf, Dean. It...shouldn’ be ‘llowed.”</p><p>The non-sequitur bumps worry directly into first place. Dean walks faster.</p><p>When they do finally reach the Impala, Dean has to pop open the passenger door with his foot. He lays Cas down with his head nearly under the steering wheel. Then he strips off his own jacket and flannel, the shirt underneath darkened with sweat. He pillows Cas’s injured ankle on the rolled up jacket to keep it from moving on the drive. Once he’s settled in the driver’s seat, he props Cas’s head on his right thigh and folds the flannel against the gash above his eyebrow. The sheet of red down his cheekbone makes him look positively ghoulish.</p><p>“Alright, buddy, hang in there.” Dean pulls onto the dirt road, one hand on the wheel and the other pressing down on the makeshift bandage. Cas keeps shifting his neck as if to move away from the painful pressure, but Dean doesn’t let him. “Hey, eyes open. If you fall asleep right now, you might not wake up.”</p><p>Cas weakly bats a hand at Dean. “Ge’ off me.”</p><p>“I can't, you’re losing blood.”</p><p>“That hurss.”</p><p>“Yeah, tough shit.”</p><p>“Angels shouldn’t hurt.”</p><p>Dean sighs. They’ve all been avoiding the A-word for months. Of course, a gushing head wound functions a bit like alcohol - a drunken mind speaks a sober truth. “No, Cas, they shouldn’t.”</p><p>A beat passes, and Dean glances down to see wide eyes peering up at him. “Why...am I in the front seat? I never. Ride in the fron’.”</p><p>Dean almost laughs at the petulance in his voice. “I needed to keep an eye on you. Besides, man, you rode in the front on the way to this hunt, like three hours ago.”</p><p>“Sam wasn’t here, that doesn’t count. I’m always regulated...reg-relegated to the...the back when iss th’ three of us.”</p><p>He does snort at that one. “Well, Sam kinda called shotgun for life. God, leave it to you to attempt words like ‘relegated’ when you’re concussed.”</p><p>Cas lets out a soft noise, more intrigue than pain. “Oh. I have a…’ncussion?"</p><p>"Chances are. You hit your head pretty damn hard."</p><p>“So thass why my mouth...is not cooperatinn’.”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>"I don’ like the way this feels.”</p><p>Dean shifts his hand, keeping the fabric pressed to Cas’s head but letting his thumb trail through the dark hair underneath. “Yeah, it’s no fun. But I’m gonna fix you up, okay?"</p><p>Cas squeezes his eyelids shut one after the other, like he's testing his vision. “The hist’ry of human head drama is actually...quite fascinatin’.” Dean assumes he means trauma, but since all his words are blending together anyway, he doesn’t bother correcting him. It’s like being lectured by a stoned professor. “Didyoo know, the first medical burr holes were drilled into those who were behaving abnorm’lly in order to let out what people believed to be evil sp’rits?”</p><p>The corner of Dean's mouth turns up. “I did not.”</p><p>“It’s true. Even when demons aren’t present in a situation, their shadow finds a way to, um...wreck? No. Wreak. Wreak havoc on human life. Or perhaps in the bigger picture of this case, accident’ly inspire med’cal breakthroughs.”</p><p>“Y’know, you’re cute when you babble.” Dean doesn’t mean to say it out loud, and yet out loud it is said.</p><p>Cas pulls a face, squinting upwards like he can’t quite find Dean’s face. “Forgive my...current lack of reasoning skills, but I assume you're bein’ facetious?"</p><p>Dean pauses thoughtfully. “I'm actually not, no.” He boops a finger on Cas’s nose, and gets the strange pleasure of watching him go briefly crossed-eyed trying to watch. “Let’s avoid drilling holes in your skull though, okay? Just stay awake ‘til we get back.”</p><p>“...I don’ think I can.”</p><p>Dean looks down again at the hushed voice, and Cas’s eyes are fluttering dangerously.</p><p>“Cas, look at me, right now.” Dean demands, glancing back and forth from his bloody face to the road before them. <i>“Cas!”</i> After too long, Cas does grunt and peer back up. His eyes are glassy. Dean considers his options. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna do something I haven’t done in years, alright? I used to, uh...well, I used to sing to Sammy, when he was sick or hurt. So he could focus on my voice instead of the pain.”</p><p>Cas’s already fuzzy expression grows impossibly softer with a smile. It gives Dean the courage to say what comes next.</p><p>“Our favorite was <i>Hey, Jude.</i> Just like Mom used to sing.”</p><p>Cas shifts a bit, wincing at the pull of his ribs, and tilts his head against Dean’s stomach so he can look up at him more fully. “I’d like to hear that.”</p><p>“Alright. But if you tell Sam about this, I will make you sit in the trunk on our next twelve hour drive.”</p><p>A strange sound bubbles up and it takes Dean a second to realize it’s a delirious laugh. “I won’t tell ‘nother soul.”</p><p>Dean looks at the disoriented angel in his lap, and doesn’t have to reach for the lyrics at all. They come easy.</p><p>
  <i>“Hey Jude, don't make it bad, </i>
</p><p>
  <i>take a sad song and make it better. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Remember to let her into your heart, </i>
</p><p>
  <i>then you can start to make it better.”</i>
</p><p>Dean’s voice is rough. It wobbles on the high notes, and his pitch swerves sideways on the low ones. A quick glance down to Cas’s warm gaze tells him that it doesn’t matter. He leaves the flannel pressed to Cas’s head and slides his hand down to rest lightly on his chest.</p><p>
  <i>“Hey Jude, don't be afraid, </i>
</p><p>
  <i>you were made to go out and get her.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The minute you let her under your skin, </i>
</p><p>
  <i>then you begin to make it better.”</i>
</p><p>Cas places his own hand on top of Dean’s, and his lips quirk in an honest-to-god giggle. Dean’s hackles rise defensively. </p><p>“Excuse me, mister, who are you laughin' at?”</p><p>Cas shakes his head with flinch. “Not you. Jude. Saint Jude, I only just recalled. He was...the patr’n saint of lost causes.” Dean's jaw drops at the irony. "Ah, so you didn't know. I wasn't sure if you were trying to tell me something in that horribly covno...convoluted way of yours."</p><p>“Lost causes? No way, you’re joking.”</p><p>“No, I’ve been reliably informed I’m bad at that.” Cas blinks owlishly.</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes to hide a grin. “Yeah, well. You’re getting better. Now stop ruining my favorite song with Bible study.” Cas gestures weakly for him to continue. Dean’s voice gets stronger with each line.</p><p>
  <i>“And anytime you feel the pain, Hey Jude, refrain. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Don't carry the world upon your shoulder. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool </i>
</p><p>
  <i>by making his world a little colder.”</i>
</p><p>Cas squeezes their tangled fingers lying across his chest. “Wise words.”</p><p>Dean feels a little giddy. “Here, you can learn the next part. It goes like this. <i>Na, na, na, na-na-na-na...na-na-na-na...Hey, Jude.</i> C’mon, it's simple. Repeat it with me.”</p><p>Cas's glare is heightened by the mask of blood. “Dean, no.”</p><p>“Yes!” He retorts. “Man, you gotta learn this song, it’s a classic. If you’re sticking around, then I gotta teach you all the hits, just like we’re working through the John Wayne movies. Can’t have you shaming the Winchester name, can I?”</p><p>“You misunnerstan’, I'm not opposed.” Cas mumbles. “Just, perhaps another time...when I...can actually breathe?”</p><p>“Oh. Fuck.” Dean snatches his hand away from Cas’s ribs. He lifts the fabric from his forehead to check the gash. The blood is beginning to get tacky.</p><p>Cas goes quiet, and Dean worries he’s drifting again. That is until he breathes out, “Would you keep singing?”</p><p>Dean inhales against the swell of affection in his chest. He feels the urge to touch Cas again, to run more fingers through his hair. Instead, he forces both hands back onto the steering wheel.</p><p>But if it keeps Cas awake, and more importantly makes him smile, then the one man show must go on.</p><p>
  <i>“Na, na, na, na-na-na-na...na-na-na-na...Hey, Jude!”</i>
</p>
<p>Any semblance of comfort earned vanishes once Dean has to pick Cas up again to get him inside their motel room. He’s shaking in pain by the time Dean sets him down in the chair beside the dinette table. His hands float shakily over his ribs, wanting to press into where it hurts but knowing it would only make it worse. Dean takes one of those hands briefly to give him something to ground himself to, and Cas squeezes so hard Dean winces.</p><p>“How do you humans cope with-<i>ah!</i>-living in these...tissue paper bodies? It’s beyond overwhelming.”</p><p>“Practice.” Dean gives him a wry smile. “And booze.”</p><p>He extricates his hand, checking for fingernail marks, and unpacks their well-loved first aid kit from his duffel. “But you’re new to the human pain thing, so we’re gonna take it easy with some Tylenol. Not ibuprofen! That can act as a blood thinner, so you never take it with a head wound, okay?” </p><p>Cas gives him a look that says, <i>You really think I'm retaining information right now?</i> Which, fair. </p><p>Dean pulls out the pill bottle and goes to fill a disposable paper cup with water from the bathroom. When he gets back, Cas has his head dropping backwards over the chair. “No, no, eyes open. C’mon, up you get.” Dean slides a hand behind Cas’s neck, and lifts him into a more upright position. “You gotta elevate that head. And keep your breathing even and shallow if you can, it’ll help with the rib pain.”</p><p>He talks Cas through swallowing the pills. He only chokes briefly, which Dean takes as a win. Shining a flashlight into Cas's eyes earns him a growl, but does confirm that the pupils are dilated to wildly different sizes. Definitely concussed. Then he tapes a temporary gauze patch over Cas’s forehead, which is bleeding more sluggishly now but will need stitches later.</p><p>Next he kneels at Cas’s feet. “Okay, I won’t lie to you. This is gonna suck.” Dean rolls up Cas’s jeans to mid calf and unties the boot as much as possible. Cas keens when Dean lifts the foot out and extends his knee. His knuckles are turning white over the edge of his seat.</p><p>“Have you...done th’ss before?” Cas bites out between his teeth.</p><p>“Of course I have, man,” Dean reassures him. It’s a lie - he’s reduced dislocated shoulders plenty. Ankles, not so much, but he figures the technique is similar enough. No need to worry Cas any more than necessary.</p><p>He peels off the sock, and Dean is not squeamish by any means but he does have to take a deep breath at how <i>wrong</i> it looks. The foot is bent at an unnatural angle, and the shin bones are jutting out way further than usual. A light sweep of his fingers confirms that nothing is broken, just that it's been violently wrenched out of place. The skin around the joint is beginning to flush an ugly purple, but despite the swelling Dean can see how he’ll have to pull to get it back where it belongs.</p><p>He grips Cas’s heel, the other hand bracing higher on his achilles. Cas sucks in a huge breath and holds it.</p><p>Dean looks up at him sadly. “Man, you gotta breathe. First rule of human medical shit: it’ll hurt worse if you’re all tensed up.”</p><p>Cas blows it out through clenched teeth, a soft <i>shhhh</i> sound escaping him. He lifts one hand to run it down his face, and leaves it there to cover his eyes. It’s childish and sweet, and also hits Dean like a brick to the gut. Like Cas can make the pain go away by refusing to see it. </p><p>
  <i>If only.</i>
</p><p>“Dean, will you do something f’r me?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.”</p><p>“Don’t count.”</p><p>Dean bites his lip, and considers explaining his and Sam’s fake counting trick for this kind of thing, the one he was planning on using right now. Instead he just flexes his hands, hard, and snaps the ankle back into place.</p><p>Cas screams, his good foot kicking out weakly despite his best efforts to stay still. He's loud enough that Dean begins to worry someone might call the cops on them, but a few moments later Cas stuffs his fist into his mouth and bites it down into a whimper. His whole body twitches, and he nearly pulls out of Dean’ grip.</p><p>“Steady, <i>steady,</i> don’t move. Just hang in there, Cas. You’re doing great.” Dean strokes a thumb over the quivering muscles of the leg in his hands.</p><p>“Oh, am I?” Cas asks in a strangled voice, like he’s choking on his tongue. “It...cert’nly doesn’ feel like it.” Dean wraps the ankle in a tensor bandage, careful not to cut off the circulation, and pops one of the instant ice packs to rest on it.</p><p>“Yeah, you really are.” It’s not a lie, but it probably sounds like one. Dean can’t imagine what all this must feel like to Cas, with his only frame of reference being the cold, distant way angels perceive human feelings.</p><p>He and Sam have been patching each other up for decades, and there’s an unspoken understanding about it between them. Pain is inevitable; apologies and platitudes won’t make it go away. They do what needs to be done and leave it at that. It’s been a while since Dean has bothered trying to comfort someone he actually knows, and it’s harder than he remembers. So many of the consoling phrases he could resort to, <i>you’re alright, I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay,</i> just ring false right now. This feels delicate, whatever is happening between them. Like Cas might topple over the edge of something much more dangerous than that ravine if Dean missteps.</p><p>Next he reaches for the hem of Cas’s shirt, and helps him remove it slowly so they can get at his ribs. Dean expects the swath of bruising, the shallow breathing, the way Cas is holding his torso stiffly for fear of aggravating the injuries.</p><p>What Dean doesn’t expect is how the expanse of smooth, tanned skin overwhelms him. He’s definitely seen Cas shirtless before, since they’ve been cohabitating for about six months now, but something is different. Maybe it’s the spill of red down his face, or the quiet panting. Dean’s hands itch to reach out and comfort and touch, and god, that keeps <i>happening</i> tonight.</p><p>He feels along each rib, noting which spots make Cas wince. Nothing is cracked, so he kneels closer and presses the KT tape on hard while Cas hides his face in Dean’s shoulder. Dean fights the urge to find and shoot whoever invented Tylenol for deciding it should take this long to kick in.</p><p>When the ribs are sufficiently bound, Cas sags as much as he dares into the chair. His eyes have gone glassy again and his pulse is thready. Dean looks up at the motel’s grimy ceiling, his own eyes beginning to burn. This is so beyond wrong, he can’t even wrap his head around it. A fucking <i>ghost</i> did this to the creature once powerful enough to rescue him from Hell. There cannot possibly be a God running things around here if He lets this kind of bullshit fly.</p><p>But maybe Cas still has some mind-reading powers, because he takes the words right out of Dean's mouth. “I hate this. Iss...not fair. My entire existence, I b’lieved that God was just. But...was my sin so unforgivable that <i>this</i> is the punishment I deserve?" </p><p>The rough saw of his voice is lacking the bass that shakes through Dean’s skull most days. It’s breathier, higher pitched, like someone flipped off his subwoofer. Dean closes his eyes for a moment and remembers the stoic gravel-gargling SOB who walked into that barn, and considers how little he resembles the man before him now. This Cas gave up everything he had ever known just because he believed in Dean, and Dean said this was worth dying for. True humanity, in all its glorious raw edges and beautiful imperfections. But also in its horror and pain. Cas is hurt and scared and rejected by his <i>family,</i> all because Dean asked him to rebel. And doesn’t it just make sense? Grim, twisted sense? That the man Cas seeks comfort from now may as well have dealt the blow that nearly killed him? It all began with Dean. He broke the first seal. Everything that follows will always be his fault, somehow.</p><p>He did this to Cas.</p><p>When he focuses back in, Cas is staring at him. His lip is quivering, his mask of calm about to break and take a piece of Dean’s heart with it. </p><p>“No, Cas,” Dean breathes, and suddenly he’s kneeling between Cas’s feet, chest to chest, gently wrapping his arms around shoulders wracked with sobs. He tucks his nose into Cas’s neck and feels two hands twist into the fabric over his shoulder blades. Tears dampen his shirt where Cas presses his face. “You deserve better than this. I’m sorry.”</p><p>He holds him for a few minutes, lets the shaking subside before he pulls away. Cas stares at him for a beat, that old charged look from his angel days, but his expression turns cold and distant when he swipes a finger across Dean’s cheek. He presents the smear of red.</p><p>“That's mine. I ‘pologize.” Cas looks down to where Dean's arms hang by his sides. "You've got my blood on your hands."</p><p><i>Yeah, no kidding,</i> Dean thinks.</p><p>“I'm washable. Don't worry about it. Besides, I owe you one, or a hundred.” He waves a hand in front of Cas’s eyes and they barely track his movement. “We gotta stitch up your noggin.” The expression Cas pulls is pure middle schooler being handed a chore list, and Dean wonders if he picked it up from Sam.</p><p>He removes the gauze patch, pushes back some strands of hair, and begins wiping at the blood. Head wounds gush a disproportionate amount, so Dean is relieved to find that once it’s mostly wiped away, the cut isn’t quite as wide as he feared. It is long though, stretching about six inches, starting at the top of Cas’s hairline, slicing diagonally through one eyebrow, and ending at the soft point below his temple. One inch over and the blow might've cracked his eye socket. As it stands, he'll develop some nasty bruising. He’s definitely lost a metric fuckton ton of blood, if his slight swaying and the pile of red-drenched rags are anything to go by. </p><p>“Man, you don’t do shit by halves, do you?”</p><p>“I was trained not to,” Cas responds, his eyes off in the middle distance.</p><p>Dean parks his ass on the edge of the dinette table to get Cas's head level with his hands. "Here goes." He starts stitching along the hairline. Cas bites his lip and stays still, a pinched expression on his face. Dean was in surgery the last time Cas got stitches, and this time he has too few arms to hold his hand or something. He wishes he could offer that small comfort. He remembers his first time, five knots for a cut on his elbow when he was seven. Sammy had clung to his pant leg the whole time, whispering encouragements, and it had made the endless pain a bit more bearable. There's nothing like a kid telling you he believes in you to make you feel like a superhero.</p><p>By the time he reaches the eyebrow, Cas is shaking profusely and beaded with sweat. There are two inches left, but something tells Dean to pause. He ties off the knot and sets the needle driver on the table, reaching back up to push a hand through Cas’s hair. It’s still saturated with blood and will need a good wash, but that can wait until tomorrow. “We're not quite done, but I think you need a break.”</p><p>Cas’s eyes go wild. “Fuck, Dean!” It short circuits Dean’s brain to hear the curse from Cas’s mouth, and his fingers freeze. “Jus’...just stop, I don’t want the stitches, leave it alone.”</p><p>“Cas, I know stitches suck, but when you’ve lost this much blood, they aren’t exactly optional.”</p><p>“Well, I don't want them! Stoppit, please, stop helping me.”</p><p>That brings Dean up short. “Stop helping you?”</p><p>Cas looks like he’s revealed more than he intended, and averts his eyes. </p><p>Dean feels wrong-footed suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I help you, Cas?”</p><p>Cas pushes off Dean’s hands. “I don’wannit, I don’...Oh, <i>Father,</i> my brain feelsso muddled, it’s infuriating. And the emotions, the pain, they’re all too much, it's like I'm...drowning.” Cas goes to bury his face in his hands, but Dean grabs his wrists to stop him from pulling at the stitches. Cas rips away. “I don’t want to be some tragic obligation of yours. I don't want your pity, or your help, I don’ want it! I don’t want <i>any</i> of it!”</p><p>Dean knows they’ve pivoted towards the elephant in the room. “What don’t you want?”</p><p>Cas looks so miserable when he finally admits, “My humanity. Dean, I feel so lost. I cannot stand to be this weak, this...pathetic without my grace. My purpose has been forced outta me and now I’m an empty shell, a useless <i>human.</i> What am I supposed to do with that?”</p><p>“Hey,” Dean says, a little sharper than he intends. He feels like they're sliding back towards the 'mud monkey' metaphor and it's making him bristle. He crouches down before Cas again so they're face to face. “I’m human. You don’t think I’m useless, do you?”</p><p>Cas glares at him with those big concussed eyes, and still manages to look offended. “Of course not, Dean. You’re special, and you always have been.” He groans. “You are so annoying when you miscoms-<i>nn</i>...misconstrue my words.”</p><p>Dean blushes at the combined praise and insult.</p><p>"Humans are miraculous. I know that firsthand now because of you. But you were born with a soul, and were raised into your humanity. Iss who you are at your core.” Cas gestures at his bloody form. “I’m as soulless as I was as an angel. Just some celesel...cel...<i>fuck.</i> Celestial wavelength of intent, stuck in a body that doesn’t even belong to me.”</p><p>Cas, inhibitions drained out with half his blood volume, places a hand over Dean’s heart. “I used to be able to heal you with a touch. I had the power of Heaven at my fingertips. Now I can’t hunt a measly ghost without-” Cas spits out a little blood into his cupped palm.</p><p>“Aw, man, I just cleaned you up, c’mon...” Dean grabs another towel and wipes at the hand.</p><p>A note of fear enters Cas’s tone, his thin breaths going shakier. “If I can’t protect myself, how am I supposed to protect you? W...what am I even doing here?”</p><p>Dean may know how to calm a civilian experiencing their first supernatural encounter, or how to talk someone through shock, but he suddenly feels beyond out of his depth. Cas’s words have rattled the aphorisms right out of him. What the hell kind of pithy self help nonsense could Dean possibly offer him at this moment?</p><p>Because he’s not wrong. It was his job to protect Dean, his literal God-given purpose, and the role reversal must be a trip. Dean has definitely felt a degree of self-consciousness whenever Sam is the one sponging off the blood, like him taking care of Dean somehow violates the laws of physics. Dean traces the line of knots down Cas’s forehead, and eyes the injured ankle tucked between his own knees. Cas isn’t prepared to cope with the struggles of humanity like the Winchesters are. For millennia, he relied on his power and strength, and now this crucial piece of his identity has been taken from him. Dean thinks of the ironic scars running down his back, the ones Cas tries to keep hidden whenever he changes. They seem like nothing more than a cruel reminder of Heaven’s wrath, of how severely Cas has been punished for choosing free will. He must feel so powerless to stop any of this, and Dean knows just how much that can set you back on your heels.</p><p>But he also thinks of the ways Cas has helped him since they met. Angel transit, healing, <i>rebelling,</i> sure. But even more so, Dean thinks about the ways Cas has offered them his intuition, generosity, and compassion as an almost-human. How he wakes Dean when the nightmares leave him screaming, with a gentle hand on his shoulder instead of a rush of grace. How he navigates their old maps from the back seat, finding vegetarian restaurants for Sam and pointing out burger joints for Dean. How his steady presence as a member of their little unit these last six months might be the most solid thing Dean’s felt in his life since Hell.</p><p>Dean could tell him all that. He could explain how good it makes him feel to have Cas here with him, how those small moments of joy have made up for so much other bullshit the world has put on their plate. But what kind of a purpose is that for someone who watched the birth of the universe? How could a human life beside <i>him</i> possibly be enough for <i>Cas,</i> who has known so much more?</p><p>They really are coming to the end of this ride, Dean thinks. Once he's all healed, Cas will set off to find some other path far away from Dean, who lives at the eye of a storm of apocalyptic fuckery, and will only ever always get his people hurt.</p><p>Dean steels himself. <i>Cas needs you. Put away your feelings and do your fuckin’ job.</i></p><p>“Hey.” He tips Cas’s chin up. “Just let me help. You’ve taken care of me plenty, alright? Now it’s my turn.” Dean tries for a smile.</p><p>Cas doesn’t say anything. His glazed look makes Dean think he isn’t really listening anymore.</p><p>Dean tapes another gauze patch over the last of the open wound. The blood has mostly stopped flowing, and he can finish stitching in the morning. Cas has had enough pain for one day. They’ve both earned some rest.</p><p>He scoops an arm under Cas’s knees and another behind his back. The lift and move to the bed only takes a few seconds, but Cas's head is rolling on his neck by the time Dean is propping him against the headboard. A blue-eyed bobblehead, dizzy with the altitude change. His wide eyes aren’t focusing, and Dean wonders what would actually pop up if he Googled treatment options for concussed former angels. Probably some sports medicine blog about that L.A. football team.</p><p>He isn’t expecting Cas to grab his wrist when he goes to step away.</p><p>“Dean. Everywhere I turn, I feel like I’m bracing for impact. Heaven struck me down and I’m still falling more and more, every day. Now I’m constantly bombed...b-bombarded by human needs, feelings, desires. And monsters keep <i>hitting</i> me.” He sounds insulted, the holier-than-thou tone making a brief appearance. Like, how dare these abominations have the audacity to lay a hand on a former servant of God?</p><p>Dean extricates his wrist. “Well, that last one is kind of an occupational hazard, man.” He reaches for the blanket folded at the end of the bed and sits facing Cas to spread it over his bare chest.</p><p>Cas barrels on anyway. Definitely not listening. “A vicious blow is always coming my way, that's all I know. I've learned to anticipate it by now. Every time I round a corner, there could be someone waitin’ to ambush me. So I walk around flinching, expecting a strike. And the next one will be the most painful, because now, without purpose or use, <i>you</i> can jus' get rid of me like Heav’n did.”</p><p>Dean feels like he’s taken a crowbar to the back of the head.</p><p>“...What?” He manages to whisper.</p><p>Cas closes his eyes and shifts his shoulders, trying in vain to soften the slab of wood behind his back. His voice is cavalier, completely unaware that his words are cutting through Dean like knives. “I keep wond’ring why you haven’t turned me out yet. I can’t stop falling. I serve no benefit anymore, and I'm a liab...bility. Without my powers, my presence endangers you and your brother, and besides that must be burdensome. I don’ understand why you’re bothering to keep me around.”</p><p>
  <i>Holy shit.</i>
</p><p>Dean has had this whole thing backwards.</p><p>He gives in to the itch that’s lived under his skin all night, hell, all <i>year,</i> and lays a hand on Cas’s jaw. Blue eyes meet his own, finally lighting up in awareness at the tender touch.</p><p>“Cas...have you been waiting for me to kick you out?”</p><p>“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>Dean wants to punch him and hug him at the same time. “Jesus, Cas. I thought you were gonna leave!”</p><p>He tilts his head in confusion, angling it right into Dean's palm. “You what?”</p><p>“Everybody leaves me, eventually. Especially when I don’t want ‘em to. I assumed it was only a matter of time before you did, too.”</p><p>Dean realizes with a start that their faces are incredibly close. Cas lays a shaky hand over Dean’s, pressing it harder against his own cheek.</p><p>“Dean Winchester. If it’re up to me, I would nnever. Choose. To be anywhere but by your side.”</p><p>His words may slur, but Dean feels them warm his skin like sunlight breaking through the clouds.</p><p>The charge in the air breaks.</p><p>Dean closes the distance and then they’re kissing, sweet and chaste. He moves his lips against Cas’s and tastes blood at the corner of his mouth. Dean presses in deeper, like he can say what he needs to say without any talking at all. He’s always been better at gesture than conversation.</p><p>But no, he has to use his words. If Cas thinks Dean wants him gone, then he had better get his shit together and spell it out.</p><p>Dean pulls back enough just to whisper against Cas’s lips, their foreheads touching and their breaths mingling. “Let me make this crystal clear. I want you here, Cas. All the time. And if Heaven doesn’t, then that’s their loss, but <i>I want you.</i> Not because of your powers, and not because you’re useful. Just because you’re <i>you.”</i> He presses a kiss to Cas’s temple, and the breathy sigh Cas releases against his neck hits Dean like a high. “We’re family now. Over my dead body am I ever letting you walk away from me again thinkin’ that I don’t care. Understand?” Cas’s eyes have never been bigger. In lieu of responding, he tugs on Dean’s shirt and slots their mouths together once more. It’s desperate this time, hungrier, and <i>god</i> it’s good.</p><p>Castiel remembers, underneath the intense burst of dopamine, that he has never been kissed. He’s also never before understood the human obsession with the action, as a sign of affection or as a physical representation of love.</p><p>He gets it, now.</p><p>He slides his hands into Dean’s hair and kisses him again, and again, and again. He spares one corner of his brain to imagine a world in which they never have to come up for air.</p><p>Through the fog of his rattled skull, Castiel is aware this is not the solution to all their problems. A blow <i>is</i> coming. Whether it’ll be a swing from an adversary or the crash of his body against the earth when he fully falls from grace, he does not know. But what he does know is this: Dean is as close as he’ll ever get to a soft place to land.</p><p>God or no God, he has faith enough in that.</p><p>Eventually, they pull away long enough for Dean to strip out of his jeans and set a concussion-check alarm for two hours. Then he slides under the covers behind Cas, sets a pillow under the injured ankle, and rolls Cas onto his side so the gash on his forehead isn’t rubbing against the sheets. </p><p>Gently, like he's handling something precious, Dean presses his chest against Cas’s back. The heat of the contact between them simmers, and Cas melts into it. </p><p>After a few moments, he feels Dean run a curious finger along one of his wing shaped scars.</p><p>No one has touched Cas there since the stitches six months ago. There's no pain, but he jerks away in surprise, and finds himself twisting over the edge of the bed. With a gasp, he pulls his arms in to protect his body from the fall, and shuts his eyes.</p><p>"Oh, <i>no</i> you don't."</p><p>The impact he’s expecting comes from the wrong direction. Dean snags him around the waist and pulls him back securely against his chest. A hiss escapes Cas's teeth at the pressure on his aching ribs, but there is a deep security in this touch, surety in the firmness of the hands around him. After millenia of existence, Castiel has never felt more safe than in the arms of Dean Winchester.</p><p>Dean smooths a tentative hand over his hip. “Sorry, did that hurt? I didn’t mean to scare you.”</p><p>An inexplicable laugh bursts from Castiel’s chest. "You caught me." He whispers to the quiet space between them.</p><p>Dean brings his lips to Cas’s pulse point, breath puffing against the shell of his ear.</p><p>“You might be falling, Angel, but like hell if I’m gonna let you hit the ground.”</p>
<p>Tomorrow morning, Sam will arrive with the rare book he has been tracking down. He’ll walk in and see Dean cradling Cas’s bruised body, spooning him with an arm around his waist and lips pressed to the top of his spine. Sam will tease his brother mercilessly, whisper-chanting <i>I knew it, I knew it!</i> over and over. Dean will roll his eyes, brush it off, and deflect away from the hot rush of blood in his cheeks with some crack at Sam’s outfit.</p><p>Dean will then self-consciously pull his hand away from the warmth of Cas's bruised ribs. When Cas stirs and rolls over to see why, their eyes will meet, and an avalanche of questions will spill between them. <i>What exactly are we doing? What do you want? What are we? Is this wise, or even possible? Is that a stupid question since whatever we are already seems inevitable? I don't know. Neither do I.</i></p><p>
  <i>That said, we’ve had relatively good luck in the past with simply...making it up as we go.</i>
</p><p>But those are conversations for Dean and Cas to worry about tomorrow.</p><p>For tonight, Dean holds a former angel in his arms and listens to him breathe. He presses a hand over Cas’s heart, feels its steady drumbeat. Cas shudders at Dean's warm exhale on the back of his neck, and revels in the way the curves of their bodies seem to align so perfectly.</p><p>They’re both human now. They want this. And maybe, despite the mistakes they've made, despite the cosmic bullshit and the fated battles and everything else that promises to destroy them somewhere down the line…</p><p>Just this once, they can have what they want.</p><p>Maybe they even deserve it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If anyone feels inspired to draw fluffy whumpy fan art for my stories, I will 100% cry tears of joy.</p><p>Sending love and gratitude to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxeoff/pseuds/maxxeoff">maxxeoff</a>, my brilliant partner in editing and a dear, dear friend.</p><p>May we all one day know a love like that of these two idiots. But hopefully with less blood loss and betrayal.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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